After high school, I was determined to continue my mediocre career as a student athlete. I abandoned football in high school and instead joined the throwing section of my school’s track team due to laziness. I accepted a partial scholarship at a school in the Amish capitol of the country. It was a school in Lancaster, Pennsylvania called Franklin and Marshall where the students have nothing to do other than drink and smoke.
I had a pretty impressive THC routine in high school. It was necessary to abandon it when arriving on college for fear of a drug test. I instead opted to focus on alcohol, until one of the older members of the track team invited me to smoke weed one time. In between puffs, I asked if I should worry about a drug test. The group informed me that the school only tested one guy and girl from the team each semester. l I was ok with those odds, and got a level of stoned that I only call, high school high.
Over the course of the semester, I found myself increasingly bored. The town had less action than the Northern tip of the map in Grand Theft Auto 5. Most of the athletes I met had been smoking the whole semester, so I too indulged a few times a week. I read a book that semester I was so bored. Don’t chastise me for smoking a little pot.
This routine was fine enough. Until the day I woke up to the email that I had been dreading in the back of my mind for several months. It was a Tuesday morning, and it was the first thing I saw when I woke up for my 10 am class. I texted every athlete I knew on campus. I texted every stoner I knew in high school. There wasn’t advice on how to pass a drug test that I hadn’t heard.
There are supposedly magic drinks you can buy to flush your system. I couldn’t get those in time. Instead, I bought a gallon of cranberry juice and a drug test at CVS. I failed the home drug test, so the panic really set in. I started chugging cranberry juice, and sat on an exercise bike in several layers of a sweat suit.
After half a gallon of cranberry juice, and thirteen miles, I stumbled off the bike. The only thing different between me and Lance Armstrong in that moment, was a singular ball. I took a shower and made my way to the gym, which had doubled as a testing facility. To my surprise, the test was the next day. I only had to go that day to hear instructions and fill out paper work.
When I arrived at the testing facility the next day, there were five NCAA officials. They ranged from the age of 65-75, and all looked just as burdened to be there as we were. When it was your turn, one of them would take you to a bathroom to watch you pee in a cup. By watch, I mean that an elderly man saw a freckle on my privates that day.
During my turn, I couldn’t fill up the cup all the way. This meant I was given a bottle of water and a seat at the end of the line to try again. When I walked into the bathroom the second time, the official asked, “No stage fright this time?” It was possibly the most demeaning thing I’d ever heard. I filled up the cup anyway.
The only way I knew how to celebrate the end of the process was with a joint. I truly had no idea whether or not I passed, but I couldn’t worry about it anymore. Being kicked off the track team would’ve been a pricier high than any I’ve had in my life, but it was in the past.
Two weeks later, I received the news that I passed. I participated in one meet with the team, and transferred out at the end of the semester. I didn’t learn much from this story. Except for the fact that Johnny Manziel was definitely walking into his drug tests with a bag of urine taped to his under carriage.